


Like This Wild Place

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Other, Trans Character, Trans!Musketeer(s), Trans!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As you ride back through the city gates as night falls, you realise for the first time how you’re seen here – and it straightens your spine and kindles a new warmth in your heart, and brings a tear to your eye that you blame on the dust from the road.</i>
</p><p><i></i>A soldier<i>, you think, not caring any more that your stomach is growling and you haven’t slept a whole night through since it happened, or that your ribs ache steadily from the pressure of linen bound tight over bruises. </i>A gentleman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like This Wild Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoeFaraday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeFaraday/gifts).



> “My own heart, like this wild place, has never been visited, and I do not know whether it could sustain life.” - Jeanette Winterson, _Sexing the Cherry_
> 
> For Leo, who helped birth this story; thanks to Melly for posting the perfect quote at the perfect time. 
> 
> **Content notes** : While this is a ‘happy ending’ fic, it deals with details of d’Artagnan’s experience as a trans man that may be upsetting. Please see the end notes for more detailed information.

****The morning you bury your father, you stay crouched before the mound of fresh earth long after the priest has gone, feeling the chill seep through the soles of your boots and into your bones, and think.

You don’t speak. You and Papa said more than enough to each other, the words still ringing in your ears:

_Your mother gave you that name._

_You know I’ll never be marriageable._

_I only want to keep you safe._

When you imagine going back there without him, you realise it’s actually no choice at all.

 

* * *

 

As you ride back through the city gates as night falls, you realise for the first time how you’re seen here – and it straightens your spine and kindles a new warmth in your heart, and brings a tear to your eye that you blame on the dust from the road.

 _A soldier_ , you think, not caring any more that your stomach is growling and you haven’t slept a whole night through since it happened, or that your ribs ache steadily from the pressure of linen bound tight over bruises. _A gentleman._

It doesn’t matter that you have naught to your name but the clothes on your back, the sword at your hip and the mount carrying you on. You are a gentleman, and that’s all the courage you need.

 _Just give me a sword,_ you hear your child-self say, and smile.

 

* * *

 

Those first few weeks at the garrison you barely know yourself. You’re both harder and more volatile than you were, oscillating between grief and aggression in a way that starts to scare you.

You are sparring against Aramis when you realise there’s no longer anyone alive who truly knows you, and it winds you so suddenly and completely that he has scored a long slice across your upper arm before he realises you’re not going to move away.

He says, “You’re doing well,” as he patches you up (at least it wasn’t your thigh, your side, your chest), and when you hear the words in your father’s voice, you can no longer hold back the tears.

He brings you a glass of wine and waits until you’ve exhausted his handkerchief before asking, “What happened?”, and you’re endlessly grateful when he doesn’t try and touch you.

You stare at the grain of the table, and find an explanation that’s the truth, if not the whole: “I realised my father will never know me as I am now.”

Aramis regards you for long enough to turn you hot and cold at once – before giving you a smile that reminds you of your old priest, before you started refusing to take communion. “D’Artagnan. Your father knew you your whole life, and he would again. You’ll always be his son.”

Those words ache in your gut all afternoon and through into evening, when you put your hand to your flesh and it comes away bloody.

 

* * *

 

When you look up one quiet evening and realise that Constance Bonacieux is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, you start to understand just how much you’ve changed.

The feeling has crept over you like the tide coming in; and now that you understand why she’s ever-present in your thoughts, why making her smile feels like flying and every slight from her arse of a husband fills you with blind rage, you see you are already submerged.

Your first instinct is to thank God that she’s married, even if it must be to him. Utterly unavailable, and there can be no question of you breaking down the wall you have built between yourself, and… _that._

You do not imagine telling her your secrets. You _cannot._ You have no words for them that would not betray all you have sworn, ever since you set out for Paris at your father’s side, and became a man. Instead, you imagine her as a visitor in your past, standing beside the kitchen hearth, silently observing.

_Don’t call me that!_

_Your mother gave you that name._

You wince when the wild child you were starts to scream; Constance’s face in your mind turns pale and pinched, and she holds her arms tight to her stomach as Papa gathers you in his arms and holds you tight, holds you till you stop lashing out and just break down, so often but never quite far enough.

 

* * *

 

You love her; life goes on. You stick to your new friends like a shadow, and feel yourself grow taller beneath their gaze: gentleman and apprentice Musketeer, you tell yourself every morning, and do not worry when your chin remains as hairless as a boy’s, when you have to rouse yourself before dawn five days straight so you can wash the bloody rags between your legs before Constance wakes. You do not worry because every day dawns bright and ready for Athos to beat you at swords, Aramis at firearms, Porthos at hand-to-hand, and only now do you realise just how much Papa always held back.

 _Just give me a sword_ echoes in your mind – but you push the memory away. You are Charles d’Artagnan; you are in love; you are a Musketeer in all but name.

And yet.

Your purse is rapidly lightening, your linens nearly threadbare; you owe two months of rent with no prospect of paying the third, and the real reason you’ve had no income from your farm is that it’s not yours at all but your uncle’s, that he wouldn’t know the name Charles d’Artagnan, and you’d rather starve on the streets than put anything else to paper.

_Your mother gave you that name._

You still freeze when anyone puts their hands on you.

 

* * *

 

The weather’s grown warmer and closer till you’re sweating daily in your leathers, envying your fellow soldiers who can strip to the waist and tip buckets of water over themselves without a thought. They do not try to involve you, at least – your reactions when presumed upon are well-known, and one of the things you appreciate most about them is that they are content to take you as you come.

They all have secrets of their own, and they do not ask for yours.

Sometimes you almost forget them yourself. You live and breathe soldiering now, from dawn to dusk and often through to dawn again, from fighting in the name of the King to fighting Red Guards in midnight streets just for the thrill of it, leaving them furious on their arses and laughing because you’re alive, not even minding when Porthos or Aramis slings an arm round your broadening shoulders.

Every spare moment you think of Constance, and your heart is so full of love that just being around her makes you giddy. You’re happier than you’ve ever been, and though part of you – most of you – wants to hold her, to _touch_ her, you have not quite lost all self-preservation.

When she comes close enough to kiss you and whispers in your ear, “Teach me how to shoot,” you ride with her out of the city and do not think about the way your arms reach around her for the reins in a near-embrace, nor how she smells of lavender and spring grass, nor imagine kissing the delicate bare skin at the nape of her neck.

She is good with a pistol, once properly instructed, and with a sword too; while she will never be a warrior her determination shines through, and she’s never been more beautiful than when she lands her first hit and laughs in triumph, the sound bubbling out of her like sunlight.

“You’re doing well,” you say, and hear it in your father’s voice –

 _Just give me a sword._ Child-you’s hand closes around the hilt of Papa’s sword where it’s propped up beside the kitchen door, though even in your rage and grief you know it’s still too heavy for you to swing. _You know I’ll never be marriageable!_

Papa is crying too; and though you didn’t understand then, _couldn’t,_ you think you’re starting to now.

You tell Constance, “Again,” and raise your sword to begin the salute.

 

* * *

 

You hold a secret of hers now – _insurance_ , though your honour bristles when you think it, and you’re not sure if it’s better or worse that you might be beginning to trust her.

You no longer hide away to do your mending, at least, and though you have an answer well-rehearsed for when she asks where a man like you learned stitches so neat and even, it is your stories of the regiment she wants to hear instead.

You’re having so much fun recounting the events of Porthos’ birthday that it catches you like a dagger held to the throat when she suddenly asks, “What made you become a soldier?”

You feel cornered – but her gaze is open and curious, and how can you be in danger when you feel safer with her than with anyone else alive?

“My father was, before he met my mother. She died of the grippe when I was young, and he raised me. He told me all his stories.” You swallow past the pressure at your throat. “He wanted me to marry and take over the farm, but – I think he always knew I couldn’t live that life. We fought about it, a lot, but…”

_You’re all I have._

You can almost feel it still, the way he used to hold you.

_I just want to keep you safe._

“…but I know he loved me.”

Constance looks at you as if she’s hurting too, and it’s only then you realise you’re crying and that’s why you can’t breathe.

“He would have understood,” she says, and reaches over to take your hand.

“Yes, he would,” you agree, and weave your fingers into hers.

 

* * *

 

It happens so fast: you only wanted her to see herself the way you see her, and when you confess your love you barely have a moment to steel yourself for disappointment before she’s in your arms and you’re kissing her, and your stomach drops even as your heart soars.

If this is your only chance then you will make the most of it, and imprint every moment on your tender heart so that whatever may come, you will always know what it is to love and be loved back.

When her roaming hands push up beneath your shirt to the linen bandages there you freeze, and wait for your life as you know it to end.

Instead her hands fall back down and settle at the dip of your waist, and she keeps kissing you.

 

* * *

 

She’s never been so beautiful as when she’s laid out beneath you, her ivory skin bathed in sunlight, clutching you close as you kiss every inch of her skin.

Her hand fists uncertainly in the linen of your chemise, and she asks as if she’s scared of the answer, “Can I?”

You shake your head. What your heart cries out for your body cannot realise, and you don’t think you could bear for her to touch you as you are.

“Shh. It’s okay, it’s okay,” she’s saying, the backs of her fingers stroking your hairless cheek, and you wonder what expression is on your face.

Her other hand pushes your collar aside, and curls around your bare shoulder. “Charles. It’s okay. Just touch me.”

You do.

 

* * *

 

When you ride out to Saint-Saturnin together it’s with one hand on her waist, and her face pressed against your neck, lavender and spring grass.

The grave looks like all the others now, and you place a bunch of wildflowers at the base of the wooden cross that’s grown mossy with age, promising silently that as soon as you have your commission from the King there will be a proper headstone.

“I wish I could have known him,” she says, crouching down in the same spot you did all those months ago. “He sounds like a good man.”

You still hear the words in your mind from time to time, but they no longer hurt, and you suppose the two of you have finally found your peace.

You drop down beside her, and put your arm round her waist. “He was.”

She tries to smile, but it’s strained. “Do you think he’d have liked me?”

In the end, would he truly have understood?

You remember the man who gave you your new sword and his old leathers, who called you his wild child and tried and failed not to cry; and you’re sure when you reply, “I know he would.”

You kiss her as the sun comes out, with one hand pressed against the earth.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Detailed content notes** : Parent-child conflict due to d’Artagnan’s gender is a major theme; this fic also includes the implied use of a birth name, menstruation and body dysmorphia, including during sex.


End file.
